


The Waking Hour

by The_Pen_and_the_Sword



Series: The Immortal's Encore [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Merlin, Drama, Gen, Time Travel Fix-It, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-03-28 13:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13905312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pen_and_the_Sword/pseuds/The_Pen_and_the_Sword
Summary: Believing that he has long since failed in his destiny, an immortal Merlin decides the only way to make things right is to break the barriers of time, rewrite history, and correct his mistakes. Unfortunately, such a task is not so simple in practice. The threads of time are a slippery opponent, and people are not easily made pawns in destiny's game. And perhaps the greatest threat of them all? Merlin himself. A millenium has left him greatly changed. Is he still the man that destiny chose, or will Merlin's return only bring a new doom to Camelot with it?





	1. Prologue: Open the Gate

Rain spattered hard against the windshield, making it even more difficult to see through the gloomy night. The car kept moving though, winding down a long country road where the headlights were the only lights for miles around.

The driver squinted ahead, right hand gripping the steering wheel tightly and the other scratching nervously at the stubble under his jaw, then around above the nape of his neck. His eyes flicked to the glowing blue numbers of the digital clock on the dashboard — 11:17 PM — and then down to his phone as it pinged an alert. A text message flashed up on-screen.

_Hey Nathan. Just wanted to check in. Doing alright?_

Nathan almost started to reach for the mobile, but then changed his mind and turned stubbornly back to the road. No one knew he was out here, or where he was going, and he preferred to keep it that way. He had a feeling that if anyone found out about this, they would be less than happy.

A green blur was caught in the headlights, and Nathan leaned forward to catch the word on the sign. He was almost there.

It wasn’t much. A small Welsh town hardly big enough to be marked on a map. It did mean he was less likely to get caught, so that much he appreciated. The car trundled through the sleepy village, composed of a few houses and small shops. Nathan passed them all by, taking the main road through it all and then steering out towards the cultivated fields. He checked the clock again. 11:25 PM.

When all was dark around him again, Nathan pulled the car toward the side of the road and stopped. For a moment he sat still, both hands on the steering wheel. His fingers were trembling. He couldn’t bring himself to get out of the car until a flash of lightning lit up the land for miles around. Like a starter gun had gone off, Nathan ripped off the seatbelt and heaved himself from the car. He had to hurry, before midnight passed, before the storm was directly overhead, before he lost his nerve.

Splashing his way through deep puddles around to the back of the car, he threw the trunk open and surveyed the contents. A long coil of thin white rope. Fifteen black stones polished to a shine. A large box. A knife. 11:30 PM.

He grabbed the rope and several of the stones, and then loped out into the field a ways. When he was far enough from the road, he began to lay down the rope along the dead, out-of-season bristle on the ground, weighting it down with stones at regular intervals and running back to the car whenever he needed more. The end result was a white circle, maybe thirty meters in diameter. Thunder rumbled overhead, definitely louder than before. 11:40 PM.

When he returned to the trunk of the car, Nathan paused. With a certain amount of reverence, he opened the lid and examined every object inside: a combat knife, a textbook, a dog tag, a badge, a ring, a newspaper clipping, the list went on. He picked up the box with much more care than he had the rope and stones and carried it back out to the circle in the field. He laid each item down with careful precision, working his way in a spiral pattern from the outside edge of the circle to the center. When he reached the last object, he took a moment to look, a shard of sadness lodging in his throat. It was a picture, one of him and his…friends. They were at the seaside. He was at the edge of the picture, brown eyes staring shiftily out of frame, as if he was considering doing a runner. But there was Sarah, arm wrapped firmly around his waist to prevent his escape with a foxlike smile plastered on her face, red hair tossed in the wind. Xavier was leaning up against the short stone wall at their backs, arms crossed and smirking. And James was at the center; tall, dark, with affection for all three of them practically written on his face.  
Nathan swallowed. It was difficult to tell if the drops running down his face were all raindrops or not. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he placed the photo on the ground, anchoring it with a pebble. He wondered if they would know, if they would be angry. But if he succeeded, would they even remember him? Would he have ever met them to begin with?

He didn’t know. All he could do was believe that after he was done, all their lives would be the better for it. 11:55 PM.

Nathan made one last trip back to the car. He went first to the trunk. The only object left was the knife. He grabbed it, gripping tightly, and then opened the driver’s door.

There were more text messages on the screen.

_U sleeping? Wanted 2 call but i don't want to get my head bitten off if i wake u up._

_Hey mate. Thinking of dropping by this weekend, checking out your place. You free?_

Nathan grabbed up the phone and switched as quickly as he could to timer. Four minutes to midnight. It was now or never.

He sprinted back out to the circle in the field. Stepping over the white line this time sent an impact shuddering up through his bones. The storm was now directly overhead, and midnight was upon him.

Standing at the center of circle, Nathan threw back his head, staring upward with eyes as blue as a summer sky. Thunder boomed out. He raised his arms, the right hand still clutching the knife, almost choking on the words that would change everything, before allowing himself to shout out words of old as loud as his lungs could bear.

_“Yfel hêr bûgan mîn dæghwîl beleorendlic stêpan sê spell un læd tîma! Yfel bringan ðâs rôtlîce!”_

The world lit up so bright and became so hot for an instant that he could have believed the sun was crashing into the earth. His ears popped and began to bleed. Around him, all the mementos he had carefully laid out caught fire.

He couldn’t stop. Whatever doubts he’d had about this working mattered little now. This had to work. It had to!

 _“ðe môdgeðanc ðætte winnan yfel âgiefan mânaforscieppan welboren hêr beufan beleorendlic! Wið gân orgilde tîma, lengan me under bæc!_ ”

Directly above him, a halo of lightning flashed from point to point in the clouds, converging in a circle overhead.

Now the knife began to rise.

“ _Tô lýsednes Nathan âcwelan!”_ he howled into the storm’s fury. His eyes flared with a brilliant white light.

_“For lorian Merlin æfnan ednîwinga!”_

Then he drove the knife into his heart.

The halo of lightning exploded downward and smashed into him. An unearthly roar first shook the very earth, and then a noise like a rending scream tore through the sky to be heard for nearly sixty kilometers around.

Nathan heard none of this. He was dead. But Merlin heard it for just a moment, as his very soul was expelled from his body and false identity into a spiraling gray void. He let himself drift back into it, unresisting, and disappeared into time.


	2. Awake

Eyes blinked open to a swirl of dust motes hanging about a cracked stone ceiling.

Merlin lay still, unable to bring himself to move yet. He’d had dreams like this; waking up in his small bed in the back room of Gaius’ chambers. Sometimes it would lead into a more outlandish dream, like a knight bursting in to tell him that Morgana was about to crash a runaway train into the citadel. Sometimes it would be so normal it was painful—Gaius knocking on his door, telling him he would be late if he didn’t hurry to rise, that Arthur was yelling for him. So he held still, waiting to wake up as Nathan or Victor or Sam or any other of his numerous past identities, and the soul-deep longing that would follow.

Nothing happened. No sudden start of an anachronistic jumbling of his subconscious, nor a bid from his brain to feed at least a bit of his centuries’ stock of homesickness. Just dust motes, sunlight, and quiet sounds from outside the high window where he’d watched the city numerous times. So with immeasurable caution, Merlin began to shift his gaze around and take in his surroundings. His heart rate began to speed up as he noted details that no dream could truly imitate: the cracks in the floor, the stains on the wall, that little hole in the left door of his cupboard. His breath trembled past his lips as he caught the noises of livestock and market criers among the audible blur outside. If this was indeed just a dream, if his desperate attempt had been a failure after all, then he was fully willing to embrace insanity with open arms and kiss it on the mouth. He could lie here for days, just to hold onto that familiar moment of an early morning in Camelot.

But he couldn’t resist. Even at the risk of shattering such a precious illusion, he shifted, sat, and placed his feet on the cool stone floor. He glanced down; baggy brown trousers and a somewhat threadbare white tunic, the sleep clothes he had always worn. He rose. Every short step that drew him toward the window felt like taking a willing plunge from a high cliff, until at last he pulled himself up, and looked out.

And just like that, Merlin knew he was home.

It wasn’t just the idyllic sight of his beloved Camelot spreading out below under the bright morning sun, or the smells both pungent and enticing - even the cow shit was a damn blessing - or the cacophony he knew so well, but the feeling that was welling in his gut, to the point he expected to start choking on something. As it was, he could feel the tears forming in his eyes, but he didn’t give a damn to stop them or wipe them away. There was  _ magic  _ here. For the love of god, he could actually feel it. For so many long years, Merlin had been able to do nothing as magic retreated into the earth and away from the memories of man, to the point he felt more a relic than a living being. Here, though, magic was still alive, still thrummed through the fields and trees and sky like a massive heartbeat. Merlin almost wanted to scoff. Purge or no, he could see now that Uther had come nowhere close to eradicating magic entirely; only time was powerful enough. Here it was, as big as the sky and as powerful as the sea, and it was calling out to him as a parent would call out to a long-lost child, finally returned. In a bid to drink it in, Merlin leaned as far out of the window as he could manage. The windowsill dug into his stomach and he teetered awkwardly, but he just had to draw in the air, let it flood through his body, his blood, his bones, as parched as they were. For the first time in so very,  _ very  _ long, he felt alive again.

He was home.

“Merlin?”

The hushed gasp just about collapsed his lungs, squeaking out a less than dignified noise from his throat. Merlin clapped a hand over his mouth, the uncontrollable bout of tears growing stronger as the cupboard doors banged open and shut again in response.

“Merlin? Are you awake?” Gaius’ voice, calling out quietly again.

Logically, Merlin knew he would have to pull himself together; Gaius would probably come up to check if he was indeed awake, as Merlin remembered he used to do. Unfortunately, it seemed he had underestimated his own control, his rational side incapable of controlling the emotional. His brain was screaming to wipe away the tears, pull himself together, but all he could do was stand there, muffling sobs and shaking like a newborn deer. 

Merlin heard the shuffle of steps and the whisk of a robe coming closer, and his throat closed up. He wasn’t ready to face him yet, not so soon, he needed to get his head in the game, hammer out a solid plan now that his minor breakdown had scrambled his previous ones oh so thoroughly. With an edging-on-desperate crack in his voice that he hoped could be put down to morning grogginess, he called out, “I’m awake. I’ll be down in a bit.”

A grunt sounded on the other side of the door. “I’ll have breakfast ready.” The footsteps retreated. 

Merlin let out a deep breath and stumbled back to sit on the bed. If Gaius had come in at that moment he might have completely lost it, flung himself at his long-lost father figure, reduced to a blubbering and incoherent mess, and if that wasn’t suspicious then Merlin was a pretty woman. He dropped his head into his trembling palms.  _ Deep breaths, in and out. In and out.  _

It took him a while, but eventually his heart rate did settle and he had stopped gushing tears. Even as the last of the tremors worked themselves from his hands and shoulders, he called upon the experience of a millennium and more to steady himself. Merlin breathed out shakily. He had to make this work. Everything depended on it.

* * *

Gaius had just begun calling to him about being late when Merlin felt he was finally ready to face his new—old?—life. While he had changed—the old ensemble of brown jacket and trousers, blue tunic, and red neckerchief sending a pulse of ridiculous joy straight down to his toes—he had set about planning out at least today. He wasn’t quite sure when he had landed himself, though he didn’t believe it was too close to the beginning of his time in Camelot, nor too close to the end. To Camlann. Finding out when he was was essential if he was to plan his next move. That would be his first order of business for the day, alongside not cracking under pressure.

He took a moment at the door to his room, injecting soldier’s steel into his spine. It had kept him afloat in more than one situation. He listened to the clink of bottles and Gaius’ footsteps for one breathless minute before he squared his shoulders and pulled the door open. 

The metaphorical gut punch—  _ I’m home, I can’t believe it’s real, this can’t be real, I’ve missed it so much _ — was just as bad when he drank in the sight of the old physician’s chambers as when he’d looked down on Camelot again, but this time he managed to wrangle down the internal wailing child and kept his face smooth and impassive. Still, his heart began to beat almost too fast for his good health when his gaze alighted on Gaius’ hunched back where he stooped over the fire.  _ Friend. Teacher. A father.  _ He shoved down the painful lump in his throat with a quiet cough.

Gaius stood up straight and turned to face him. No outward reaction from Merlin aside from a slight widening of his eyes, as if to better reclaim the image of his old friend that had grown so faded with time. “Ah, Merlin,” Gaius said, making his way toward the table with two bowls held in his hands, as normal as you please. “I’m glad you’re up. You might actually be on-time today.” The old man’s smile was faintly teasing, and Merlin, with all the capacity to lie that he had behind it, returned an easy smile of his own. 

“What are you talking about? I’m always on time,” he joked, hoping his eye wasn’t twitching or something.  

Gaius shot him a look that used to cow him easily enough, but was now as welcome as a hug. The physician made his way to the table, Merlin watching motionlessly for a moment before following. The two sat and started on their bowls of porridge. Merlin only grimaced once, realizing that he was going to have to get used to the bland food of the medieval ages again, but it was a microscopic sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. He ate readily enough, trying to glance around subtly and take in the familiar space. The racks of drying herbs. The rickety staircase leading up to Gaius’ book collection. The cluttered work table piled with potion bottles and sketches of plants. Gaius’ bed over in the corner.

“You’re quiet this morning.”

“Hm?” Merlin whirled back to face his old mentor, hoping the flash of wariness didn’t register on his face. 

“These last few mornings you’ve been chattier than a lark, what with the preparations for the feast,” Gaius said. Curious, but not suspicious. Yet. 

“Feast” didn’t exactly narrow things down; there had been dozens of those, and could be anything from a royal birthday to Yuletide. Judging by the color of the leaves he had seen outside of his window it was autumn, but there were still a few too many options to hazard a guess. Best to be vague. “Well, you know, it’s a big event. Lots to do,” he replied, putting on a wide grin. 

Gaius hummed in agreement. “And many chores to complain about. But if you’re sparing those just for Arthur’s ears now, by all means, continue doing so,” he said with a little chuckle.

“Ha ha, very funny, Gaius.” Even as he felt a burst of joy at being able to joke with his old friend again, a part of him was disappointed that Gaius wasn’t going to be more forthcoming on information. No matter, though. It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure things out. 

Just as he spooned the last of his porridge into his mouth, Gaius peered toward the window. “Since Arthur isn’t back yet, I would appreciate it if you would stop by the market for me. I’m running low on spare jars and bottles, as well as honey. It shouldn’t take too much time away from your preparatory duties.”

Arthur wasn’t here? Merlin felt his grip tighten around the spoon, nerves alighting with sparks of tension. He had to struggle to bring that under control before his magic involuntarily responded. “ _ Relax”,  _ he thought to himself harshly,  _ “He’s fine. He left on short patrols sometimes and you weren’t with him. Don’t get worked up already.”  _ Still, he felt like a hunting dog primed to take off sprinting.

Maybe it was a good thing he wouldn’t have to face Arthur so soon, not as raw as he still was. The lingering shock of his actual return combined with his last memories of the king might be too much for him to bear, at least inconspicuously.

“Are you alright, Merlin?” Gaius asked. “You look a little pale.”

Merlin looked up, searching quickly for a response, before deciding that an idiotic one would be the most in-character and least suspicious. “I forgot to do Arthur’s laundry.” 

Gaius sighed resignedly, before waving Merlin off. “Then you had better hurry about completing your other chores. You might have time to get that finished before the prince’s return.”

Merlin nodded meekly and then jumped up, making for the door. At least he had the time to rally himself. No matter what he felt when he faced Arthur again, nothing could be allowed to slip. He had to be ready.


	3. And the Mission Begins Again

Merlin descended the stairs, trying to reconcile his mind which, he discovered, had decided to split itself in half. One part of his mind, still possessed by logic and wariness, seemed to be refusing to accept that what he was seeing was real, that his heart was telling the truth. After all, destiny had never been one to do him any favors. Even so, coming out into a pale hallway with sunlight from the outdoors guiding him forward, it felt too vivid to be a dream but too beyond hope to be real. Nevertheless, even if it was the most realistic fever dream he could possibly conceive of, he planned to live it to the fullest.

He stayed the path toward what he knew would be the main courtyard, legs trembling slightly with anticipation. When he emerged into the sunlight, he froze. Like before, Merlin had to have at least a moment to absorb the place and all the memories that came with it: all the patrols, hunting parties, and royal excursions started here; Sigan’s attack on Camelot; Uther carrying his son, poisoned by the Questing Beast, across the sun-washed stones; almost getting put to the pyre as Dragoon. Hardly a cheerful collection, he reflected. Rather morbid really, but they were his and that was enough. Then he strode on and let his heart lead the way. Short glimpses and faint pinging of instincts kept him from slamming into anybody as his eyes swept over the walls, the windows, the statues, the towers. Pale stone shone like new fallen snow. He ached to scream, to let out everything pent up within, but he only looked.

His trip into the Lower Town was almost as revelatory. The old houses, the noise of the market, the bustle of the people, even the stink of the animals was like a straight dose of euphoria right to his very core. The streets were decorated in strings of small banners crossing between the buildings and festoons of autumn greenery twined around the fences and stands. No doubt for the feast, but it felt almost like a welcome. A few people even called out a cheery greeting, hollering out “Good day, Merlin?” as he walked past. That was another thrilling sensation. Having people that were only acquaintances or friendly passersby acknowledging him as himself made his presence feel all the more real, his life here all the more real, not just some sacred sanctuary hidden away in his mind. He gave every greeting a wide grin in return, not trusting himself to speak.

The red-faced man in the market who sold glassware greeted him with just as much geniality. “Oi, Merlin! Fine day, isn’t it? Gaius’ll be expecting some of the usual stock, I imagine?”

“Ah, yes,” Merlin said with a stammer, wishing he could remember the man’s name. “Thank you.” 

“Keeping busy up in the citadel?” was asked as the merchant began collecting a variety of bottles and containers into a wooden box.

“Oh yes,” Merlin said. It was so strange, just having a casual-as-it-gets conversation with a person that had probably seen him only yesterday. Meanwhile, how long had he been dead and gone by Merlin’s reckoning? “Celebrations like this are always like that.”

“Aye,” the man said, “same’s been going on down here as well. The little ‘uns are excited as you please, can’t hardly wait for tomorrow and the festivities. Well, I won’t hold you up, busy as you seem.”

Merlin threw him a smile, shifting down a few stands to where a woman was selling honey just as the man called out another greeting beyond him toward a group of red-cloaked figures. “Afternoon, good sirs!”

Gaius’s supplies now collected, Merlin began to make his way back to the citadel. He was just passing over the bridge when an idea occurred. He glanced up the fortified walls toward the upper training yard which overlooked both the Upper and Lower Towns, as well as a good portion of the surrounding land. There would probably be knights up there, but he was confident he could get away with this. Tucking the supplies more securely in his arms, Merlin turned left just inside the portcullis and jogged up a narrow staircase to the battlement.

When he reached the training yard there were indeed a few knights sparring, but they were clustered in a corner away from the outer wall. Merlin drifted over to the weapons rack, projecting an air of servantly busyness as he combed the selection and settled on a random flail. Excuse now cradled in his arms with the rest of the stuff, he then drifted in an absent manner toward the overlook. No doubt the infamously slacking Merlin would draw little attention for taking a few moments to stare into space. He leaned against the low parapet, taking one last furtive glance behind him. More knights were coming onto the field, but none came close.

Merlin’s eyes now turned toward the horizon. Focusing on the faded line, he strained his mind toward that which lay beyond, staying fixed on it mentally as his eyelids slid closed. Then he opened his Mind’s Eye.

All the time he’d had to practice had made his Third Sight far stronger than it had ever been in Camelot. While his body remained slouched against the parapet, Merlin felt as though he had flung himself from the battlement out into thin air and streaked off into the sky, faster than a dragon could fly, faster than even a jet could rocket if he so wished. The rolling hills and color-dappled hazes of forests blurred below him.

First he turned to the east, cresting the over the Ridge of Ascetir as high as any hunting bird before diving downward, leaving behind the border of Camelot with hardly a thought. There, nestled in a narrow valley, was a tiny village. Ealdor. His first home. In one of the small fenced yards, a woman with a green scarf wrapped around her hair pulled weeds from her little herb garden. 

“Mother.” His fingers unconsciously clenched around the stone wall as his far-flung sight drank in every detail. Her worn hands that had smoothed his hair and held him close when he had been little. The laugh lines around the blue eyes he had inherited. The curl of dark hair that was always hanging loose by her left ear. He longed to defy the laws of physics and go to her right now, wrap her in his arms and never let go, to be held like a child again and not even care. He couldn’t though. Beyond how exhausting a transportation like that would be, and the fact that his disappearing into thin air in front of the knights would cause considerable problems, a part of Merlin could not bear the thought of Hunith seeing him. If anyone would see instantly through his lies, it would be her, and he had no idea how he could explain any of it to her. So he looked for a moment more, before turning his Sight away, withdrawing it into Camelot’s boundaries. 

Merlin circled the land aimlessly for a while, revisiting locations and bringing grayed-out memories back into sharp focus. The Valley of the Fallen Kings, the Forest of Ascetir, the Labyrinth of Gedref. A small smile crept across his face with all his recollections, genuinely happy to see these places again, but he was also fully aware that he was stalling himself. Finally, he brought his Sight in closer to home, focused on the roads and forests closer to the city. He flashed past trees, ravines, farmsteads, and small townships until at last he alighted on a galloping patrol. His back straightened a little as a few faces registered as familiar: Gwaine and Percival. So they were here. Merlin felt a budding warmth in his chest, and a silly grin was probably trying to creep onto his face. He was glad to see them. Now the apprehension for the inevitable had set in. His Sight focused on the back of the patrol’s leader. The long red cape was billowing behind him, sweeping over his snow white horse’s haunches. Dark blond hair gleamed faintly in the sun. 

A hand clamped suddenly and very unexpectedly on Merlin’s shoulder. Like the snapping of a thread, Merlin was no longer tracking a patrol along the roads of Camelot, he was hurtling through the air like a postage stamp in a hurricane, he was back with his body and whipping around, magic just barely restrained from punching the unknown person across the field and into a wall. His blue eyes, wide and aggressively bright, were met with a pair of startled brown ones. Merlin just about choked, his back colliding with the parapet behind him.

“L-Lancelot,” he nearly whispered.

The knight’s kindly face, smiling mischievously a moment ago, was now drawn with concern. “Are you alright, Merlin?”

Merlin nodded mutely, head pounding both from the exertion of using his Mind’s Eye so extensively and the chaotic mess of emotions building up. Elation at seeing his friend alive again was becoming tangled as his mind spun wheels. There was a dreadful realization creeping up on him.

“Somehow, I don’t think I believe you.” Lancelot glanced around. He had approached Merlin alone, and no one was within earshot. The knight leaned in closer. “Is something happening? Involving…you know?”

Merlin inhaled deeply, rubbing at the back of his neck. He’d almost forgotten in a way that Lancelot knew, the man had been with them for such a short time. He had grown so unused to it, having people know about him. Well, Lancelot _didn’t_ know everything now. Even so, Merlin doubted he could hide his uneasiness. With his mind slowly sliding the puzzle pieces together, he had a feeling that Lancelot was more correct about trouble than he could possibly know. 

“I’m not positive yet,” he murmured. “Just bad feelings and rumors so far. I need to figure some things out first.”

Lancelot nodded. “I see. If you do find something, call on me. Wouldn’t want you facing any threats alone,” he said, gripping Merlin’s shoulder again, sincerity apparent. 

This time, Merlin couldn’t quite resist. He reached up to grasp Lancelot tightly by the arm, locking eyes with him. “Thank you, Lancelot,” he said quietly, knowing that not all the sorrow, regret, guilt, and gratitude that had built up around the noble knight’s memory over the years could be hidden. Whether Lancelot thought he was losing his marbles or not, he had to say it. “For everything.”

Before Lancelot could start asking questions, Merlin let go and skirted around him, intending to head back into the castle. He had made it a few paces before he paused and made a half-turn back. “I’ll see you at the Samhain feast tomorrow, right?”

Lancelot was staring at him with narrowed eyes. “Of course you will, Merlin. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Just making sure.” And he left.

It seemed he wasn’t going to be allowed even a chance to rest, to collect himself and simply enjoy seeing his long-missed loved ones again. But then, had he honestly expected any different? He had known, hadn’t he? As much as he had longed to see old faces, embrace old friends again, that wasn’t why he was here. He was here to set things right. And now it seemed he was being put to his first test. It was autumn, all of the original knights of the Round Table were here, a feast was upon them, and his question to Lancelot had just confirmed the date. Merlin had less than forty-eight hours before the land was flooded by unstoppable, frigid spirits of the dead: the Dorocha.

Merlin could use a drink. Maybe he should look into legitimizing that old tavern alibi this time around.


	4. A Reunion

“Oi, watch yourself splashing water on my floor!”

Merlin threw a raised eyebrow in the cook’s direction, but said nothing as he tried to be more careful washing the ceremonial garments, trying his hardest to remember how to do it correctly; after all, it had been a while since he had done laundry by hand. While the old rivalry with the kitchen tyrant was apparently just as strong as he remembered, getting into an argument was the last thing he needed. 

He had determined to play along with his chores, planning to use his duties to keep to himself as he worked things out and shook off the massive headache from his out-of-body sweep of the kingdom. The preoccupation wasn’t helping his efficiency, but he really couldn’t care right now. He needed to plan. Morgana would be at the Isle of the Blessed at midnight tomorrow to open the gateway to the spirit world, and Merlin could not allow that to happen. Morgana was strong, definitely, but Merlin had both time and scope of power on his side. For most magic-users, their power developed in increments, going from metaphorical cupfuls to buckets to great pools with practice. As for Merlin, he had been born in the middle of a vast ocean of magic, the whole width and depth of which was his to explore, he just had to comprehend it and adjust accordingly. He had little doubt he could overcome Morgana in an outright duel. Arthur’s death, Gwaine’s, Elyan’s, countless citizens of Camelot and even those of other kingdoms could be prevented. 

All he would have to do was kill Morgana. He had done it before.

Absently, he wrung out the washing and hung it by the fire to be retrieved later. He left the kitchens with a few curious eyes on him; he was probably being unnaturally quiet, but he didn’t know anyone there well enough to raise questions. 

Merlin was trekking his way up one of the wide staircases back towards Arthur’s room when his eyes were drawn to one of the windows overlooking the courtyard. His throat closed as he watched a patrol spill into the courtyard. A head of blond hair caught the light.

Oh hell. 

The image was warped by the glass and distant, but it was enough to send Merlin’s heart hammering. He turned sharply and half-sprinted toward the royal chambers. At least he wouldn’t be caught unawares. 

He had already gotten over the assault of nostalgia the first time he had come back to Arthur’s rooms, had taken the time to walk around and relearn it all while the prince was out. Now he shuffled around, trying to take some comfort as he tidied mindlessly. He didn’t know how he could possibly prepare for seeing his king and friend again, so all he could do was try to tame his trembling and his racing heartbeat.

It took much too long in Merlin’s opinion, but at last he heard the door swing open as he straightened the bed covers.

For a few seconds stretched to breaking, Merlin grew still. His magic was singing in his blood, so close to its purpose for being again. Every other part of him, however, was considerably more reluctant for the moment he would have to turn around. Nevertheless, he would have to face it. It was why he had returned.

“My, you’ve actually been busy.” The achingly familiar voice knelled in his head like a discordant bell, all the sarcasm and humor and covert appreciation as obvious to the warlock as a shout. “I hope I won’t be opening my wardrobe to find you’ve stuffed everything in there.”

A huff of air escaped Merlin’s lungs, like the last wheeze of a bellows, some feeble echo of laughter and a sob held back. Slowly, Merlin turned, smile fixed in place and crinkled eyes dimming the teary shine of them. “Welcome back.”

Arthur was throwing off his boots, hair tangled and clothes smelling of horse. His mouth was smirking - _not drawn into a grimace of pain -_ eyes lit with teasing humor - _not going dim_ \- and his cheeks were red from the chilly air outside and exertion _\- not going pale as his life drained away._

Merlin spun back to the bed, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles from the coverlets with unsteady hands. Spastic, maybe, but soothing.

“Did you get my clothes laundered?” Arthur asked. Unconcerned. Casual. Completely normal. 

“Yes,” Merlin responded shortly, wondering what else he could do to stay busy. 

“Good. And did you see about polishing the ceremonial sword.”

Merlin paused. “Not yet. I’ve been busy.” He contemplated taking that excuse to just leave the room immediately.

“Well, come now, Merlin, surely someone of your meticulous work ethic won’t stand for that. People might start to think you tend to slack off.”

“Couldn’t have that, could we?” It was weak, and he still wasn’t looking at Arthur. His attempt at normalcy was beyond pathetic, Arthur might be oblivious with certain things but he had tended to know when Merlin was acting off, but he just couldn’t do it. Merlin swallowed the massive lump in his throat, peeked over toward the prince, and lowered his gaze again.

Arthur was silent, and if he wasn’t mulling over some form of paperwork, that wasn’t a good sign. Sure enough, “Are you alright, Merlin?”

That question again. _No_ , he longed to just admit. He could hear the windows rattling faintly; his magic was starting to act up again. He shoved it all down and replied with a shallow shrug, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’ve really missed…my mother lately. It’s…been a long time since I’ve seen her. And, you know, sometimes you get homesick. No matter where you are or how long it’s been, there’s always a part of you that remembers the place you grew up. Feels so far away sometimes.” It was more than he’d meant to say, but it was believable and none of it was actually a lie. 

He heard Arthur hum, not without sympathy. “I see. Well, after Samhain there should be enough time before the snows set in for you to pay her a visit.”

Merlin released a breath. “Thank you,” he said. “Are you hungry?” _Just forget about all this_ , he pleaded internally. 

“I already arranged for a meal to be delivered to my father’s chambers. You should see about the rest of your duties for now.”

Oh yes, Uther would still be alive. Merlin hadn’t thought about that. How strange, after everything that followed during Arthur’s reign and after, that Uther had become so insignificant where once he had been the greatest cause of fear in Merlin’s life. “I guess I’ll be going then,” he said. 

Arthur grunted, the sound coming from the direction of his desk. “I’ll be wanting a bath tonight, so don’t forget.”

Merlin nodded and retreated. He had just about reached the door when Arthur called out to him. “Merlin?”

He paused at the door, already gripping the handle but perfectly still. Had Arthur seen? Had his excuses not been enough? The weakest part of him longed for it to be the case. 

“Since you’ll be in the armory, see about getting my standard armor sent to the royal blacksmith. It’s got some dents in it.”

A sheaf of papers on the nearby table scattered suddenly across the floor. The west-facing window was open, so the wind was easy to blame. 

Merlin nodded as he pulled the door open. “I’ll see to it.”

He didn’t glance back as he left. He couldn’t see his friend anyway. All he could see were his failures staring back at him, so why look? 

* * *

Merlin spent the rest of the day caught in the flow of the castle, re-familiarizing himself with half-forgotten routes and reconnecting the bits he could recall. He still felt detached in an unsettling way, like he wasn’t all there. It might have been lessened in more personal territories, but there was no way in hell he would be going back to Arthur’s room until necessary, and he feared to linger around Gaius too long. The adjustment period was just going to have to be uncomfortable. When he could, he sequestered himself in empty rooms or disused corridors to complete his work and his plans for the following day. Things felt less surreal when he was alone.

The sunlight was beginning to gleam red through the windows of the castle before he turned to the task of Arthur’s bath. He arranged to deliver all the buckets of heated water to the antechamber of Arthur’s rooms without having to actually go in, and then fill it all quickly and leave as soon as possible. This was why Merlin was unaware that Arthur was not alone in his bedchamber until he attempted to nudge through the antechamber door, only just catching a hint of voices in time.

He held very still, peering into the room only for his breath to stutter again. It was Guinevere, as warmly beautiful as she had ever been. She was speaking with Arthur, too quietly for Merlin to hear, but it wasn’t hard to guess by how close they were standing or the tenderness in both their faces. It was a look that used to put a knowing smirk on his face every time, it was so obvious. 

A long buried sadness bloomed wearily inside, not for himself this time, but for his memory of Gwen. He had stood by her side in the years that followed Arthur’s death, and he had witnessed her fortitude, so much greater than his own. She had made a magnificent queen, wise and caring and resolute, even with the hidden grief she had carried with her to the end of her days. Nevertheless, at the end she had felt shame. She had no Pendragon heir to which the line could descend, and no matter the great good she had done for the kingdom, Merlin knew she had died feeling she had let Arthur down. 

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Gwen of all people had not deserved to suffer the loss or the false shame. Destiny couldn’t be that cruel, he believed it fully. No, that was another failure on his account. The two should have had long lives together, time to look at each other the way they were now. If he had done things differently, they would have been happy.

Merlin waited silently in the antechamber until he heard Gwen’s departure. A minute more, then he entered as quietly as he could, drawing the bath without comment. Arthur stayed where he was, hands on his hips and expression distant as he stared at the door. 

That face almost brought out a chuckle. Still a lovestruck idiot. On this, at least, Merlin had the courage to speak.

“It’s special, you know,” he said, keeping his attention on the bath as Arthur turned toward him, eyebrow raised. “What you and Gwen have. Doesn’t matter what anyone else says, it’s true.” 

Arthur huffed. “If I wanted your advice in this matter, Merlin, I would have asked.” Tetchy, as usual when feelings of any deeper nature came into play. Merlin smiled softly to himself. He shrugged lightly.

“You have before. So I decided to take some initiative this time.”

Arthur wandered behind the dressing screen, making no reply. After a moment, though, he spoke, unsure. “Do you believe that? That in spite of all the traditions, Gwen and I…this is the right thing to do?”

Merlin stood straight and turned to face the screen. Arthur couldn’t see him, was busy rustling out of his clothes, but that was fine with Merlin.

“I believe it completely. You and Gwen will be happier than you can imagine, and your lives will be long and prosperous together. I know it.” _I swear it._

Before Arthur could emerge from behind the screen, face scrunched in confusion and mouth half-ready with a retort about Merlin’s girliness, the warlock was gone from the room. Merlin made his way back toward Gaius’s chambers, scolding himself for his impulsive words. 

The last dim rays of light had winked out against the panes and Merlin had almost reached the physician’s tower when, in the back of his mind, he heard a call. 

_Merlin._ It was faint at first, and he stopped walking just to focus on it. 

_Merlin_. Stronger this time, as if closing distance. It also sounded angry. 

_MERLIN._ Powerful now, still with an echo of distance in it, but now come to a point where it would not be ignored. 

Merlin kept walking. The booming summons continued to ring in his head, but he would endure it for now. There were preparations he needed to see to, and besides, it was more prudent to wait until the full cover of darkness. Then he would see what Kilgharrah had to say. 


	5. A Different Man

Merlin picked his way through the forest, once again trying to process too many conflicting feelings at once. It was getting a bit tiresome, but he supposed that was part and parcel of deciding to uproot himself, travel back in time more than a thousand years, and then jump back into a half-forgotten routine as if he’d just come back from holiday rather than the bloody future. 

He was… eager to see Kilgharrah again, he supposed. As the Great Dragon had long feared, his kind had died out eventually, and Merlin had felt a piece of him die with them. Sometimes, in lonely places with no one around and when Merlin was having one of his more irrational fits of loneliness, he would hike to the top of some remote hill and scream out in the dragon tongue. With no dragons left to call, his once powerful roar felt diminished and useless, accomplishing nothing but maybe scaring the living hell out of some backpackers once or twice. He longed to see his kin again. Yet he was also wary. Kilgharrah hadn’t stopped by Camelot the first time, so he could only assume that the dragon’s presence was due to Merlin’s venture in time travel and that he wasn’t happy about it. He wasn’t about to be dissuaded, though. He marched on, following the connection between lord and beast out to the moonlit clearing that had always housed their meetings. 

The dragon was there waiting, standing statue-still in the center of the grassy circle. Merlin paused at the edge. He might have found it unnerving in the old days, Kilgharrah so silent with his glowing eyes just staring, but things had changed. There was not such a divide between them anymore. They were both ancient and powerful creatures of magic now.

Merlin stood, content to wait as he took in the sight of the old dragon once again. Even though Kilgharrah was glaring, Merlin couldn’t help but feel true  _ gladness  _ welling up inside him. He and the ornery creature had had plenty of ups and downs in their relationship, but Kilgharrah had always been a constant, his kin. He had been the last friend to leave Merlin. No matter what Kilgharrah planned to say, Merlin was happy to see him.

At last, Kilgharrah broke the silence between them. “Merlin,” he hissed with subdued rage, “what have you done?”

Merlin closed his eyes, letting out a soft huff of laughter. “No hello, Kilgharrah?” He gave a hollow smile. Whether it was born from stunted joy or black humor, he couldn’t tell.

Kilgharrah it seemed finally grew tired of waiting on Merlin. With a growl, he stalked forward. There was a slight tremble in his frame, and a muted rumble was rolling in the dragon’s cavernous chest. He wasn’t just angry; he was furious. Even so, Merlin merely stood unflinchingly and looked up as Kilgharrah loomed over him. “So, you know,” he stated simply.

“Of course I know!” Kilgharrah spat out. “Did you think I would not feel the departure of my Dragonlord? That I would not know that a stranger had taken his place?”

The warlock blinked. “I am Merlin, Kilgharrah. Can you not tell?”

“You are and you are not,” Kilgharrah said, disdain coloring his words. “You may have been the foolish young sorcerer I knew once, but time changes all things. You have the same body and soul, but you are not the same man.”

Merlin found himself at a loss for words for a moment, before he shook his head. He supposed that what the dragon said was true; fifteen hundred years was a very long time, and he was a very different person than he once was. Putting it so starkly was a bit unnerving, but in the end it didn’t really matter. “Time does change people,” he said levelly, “but that doesn’t make me some stranger. I don’t see the need for your anger. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You abandoned your duties!” Kilgharrah had lowered his head and was face to face with Merlin now, hot breath blasting out from between his sharp fangs. “You are Merlin of the future, the one that was meant to await Arthur’s return! Yet here you are, fleeing from your destiny!” 

Merlin stiffened at that, and almost let out a draconic growl of his own. How dare Kilgharrah? The flash of indignant anger and denial was swiftly restrained in favor of a cool, even tone. Merlin knew what he was doing, and letting baseless accusations get to him would get him nowhere. Kilgharrah had to understand the situation. 

“You know less than you think,” he said. “I’m not running from my destiny, I came back to set it right.” He squared his shoulders; if he had to admit what came next, he wouldn’t do so cringing like a coward. “I failed, Kilgharrah. The first time around, Arthur died because I wasn’t there when he needed me. Albion’s Golden Age never came to be.” His face was stone, but his back and knees gave a traitorous tremble at the confession.

The dragon huffed. “All men have their time. How could you know that Arthur’s had not come for him?”

Merlin shook his head again. “No. It hadn’t. All that you predicted, all we had hoped for never happened, though god knows Guinevere and I tried. That has to mean someone failed, and from what I’ve seen, the blame should be mine.” To his frustration, Merlin could feel the beginnings of a lump in his throat. He strangled it away viciously. This morning he had let his feelings flow freely, but with danger already rushing up on them, the time for tears was just about over. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to make things right.” He drew right up to Kilgharrah, right up to the dragon’s right eye, pinning him with his gaze.

“I waited,” he whispered, so quietly he could barely hear himself. “I waited for fifteen hundred years. I waited and through all that time I wondered if Arthur was really coming. If I had failed in my destiny, if the prophecies had not come true, how could I know that Arthur would return? That I was worthy to see that day if I couldn’t even protect my king, my best friend?” He stared Kilgharrah until the dragon’s eye twitched away, just for a moment. “You make it sound so easy, just to wait with that uncertainty. You have absolutely  _ no idea. _ ”

For just a moment, Merlin’s control slipped, and he knew Kilgharrah could  _ see  _ him.

The dragon’s head jerked back as if a serket had tried to sting him. His golden eyes flew wide and his nostrils flared like a spooked horse.

It was only for a second, and then Merlin had regained control. He hadn’t meant for that. He had not intended to let Kilgharrah see through his shields so soon. Perhaps, though, it could turn out for the best. It would certainly send the message that Merlin was no naive infant anymore.

He sighed, shoulders drooping. “Kilgharrah, you deal in prophecy, not foreknowledge. You’ve only seen the destinations, and not the roads that lead to them. Arthur died, and I walked that road for hundreds of years, hoping that I hadn’t failed, but the end of the road never came. It only ever seemed to get blacker.” He swallowed, a faint sting at the corner of his eyes. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t bear it.”

Kilgharrah stared him down, no doubt taking in everything Merlin was admitting without words. Merlin didn’t know how much the dragon had managed to glimpse during Merlin’s brief lapse of control, but it seemed to have one him at least a listening ear. The beast sighed and straightened up. “Young war— Merlin. I am truly sorry for what you have had to endure.” 

Merlin twitched.

“However,” Kilgharrah said, “what you are doing is not wise. How can you know that the outcomes of the past were not inevitable?”

Merlin, after smothering a spike of betrayal in his gut because Kilgharrah still wasn’t seeing, let out a sharp bark of humorless laughter. It was probably the most bitter sound he had ever made. “Oh, I know they were,” he said. “I’ve had plenty of time to think it over. I just made all the wrong decisions. If I had just told Arthur sooner, stopped hiding like a craven and just said it. If I had kept him away from Mordred. If I had protected my people better. If I had just gotten rid of Morgana when I had the chance.”

Kilgharrah’s head tilted. The anger had drained away, but it had been replaced with wary scrutiny. Trying to figure out his way around him, trying to determine how he might turn Merlin in the direction of his own designs.

“Not long ago,” he said, “I might have agreed with you. I have long told you that the witch and the druid boy would lead to Camelot’s doom.”

“On that count, it appears you were right. And yet you object to my presence here when I’ve come back to do exactly what you’ve always wanted of me?”

“The actions I would accept, if they were undertaken by the warlock I used to know. You are not suited anymore to guide Arthur as he should be.”

“You have strange expectations, Kilgharrah,” Merlin said dryly. “I dissatisfied you before because I didn’t have the stomach to kill people for what they hadn’t done yet, but now that I am, I’m unfitting. Somehow, after Arthur died, I would have thought the old Merlin was not up to the task he was given.” He softened his tone when he spoke again. “I understand part of your concern, but I’ve accounted for it. I’m doing this, Kilgharrah.”

Now the dragon leaned in, coming back to eye level and matching his softness of tone. “Listen to me, Merlin. Do not do this. Go back to your time, trust that Arthur will return. It may be difficult and lonely to endure, but the day will come.” It was the gentlest Merlin had ever heard Kilgharrah speak, and for a moment he almost believed that the dragon spoke the truth.

Almost.

Merlin retreated back one step, shaking his head. His face and heart were resolute. “No.”

“Merlin!” Kilgharrah said sharply, rearing his head up higher. 

“Kilgharrah, I know your fears. But Arthur has more allies to lean on than me, and even if I’m not the same as I was, I can still give him what’s necessary. If I’m not the man that Arthur needs, then I can pretend.” The warlock drew himself up to his full height, injecting pride into his words that would have been flat and lifeless had he spoken them honestly. “It’s what I’m good at. All my long life has been a game of pretending. If Arthur needs an idiot friend for a guide, that’s what he’ll see until the time is right. And in the meanwhile, I’ll make sure that no one can threaten either him or Camelot.”

The dragon’s claws dug furrows in the grass and his wings flared with frustration and even, Merlin thought, some desperation. “You do not know what you’re doing!” Kilgharrah growled.

Merlin didn’t budge. “I know enough. Kilgharrah.” Now he let his voice fill with power, the authority of a Dragonlord that was once again alive and strong in him. “Morgana will be at the Isle of the Blessed tomorrow night. She plans to split the veil between the worlds and unleash the spirits of the dead upon Camelot, and I’m going to be waiting for her. I was going to take myself there, but it would use up a lot of strength that I am going to need. I’m asking for your help.”

The dragon glared, but before he could be rejected Merlin spoke again, more quietly this time. “In this situation, I’m willing to Command you, even if I don’t want to. Please, Kilgharrah, don’t make me.”

Kilgharrah’s eyes widened and then narrowed to burning slits. He let out a wordless snarl, wings mantling threateningly before he shook himself with disgust. “Very well, Dragonlord.” He spat the word out with utter contempt. “When you call, I will come.” Then he turned away, stalking to the edge of the clearing. As he raised his wings to propel himself into the air, he turned his head for a last parting shot. 

“Let us hope that enough of the old Merlin still lives on in you. Otherwise, I believe Morgana isn’t the only magical monster Camelot will have to fear.” With a burst of wind and a clatter of tree branches, the dragon lifted into the sky and within moments had disappeared into the night. 

Merlin remained motionless in the clearing. Kilgharrah’s words lingered in his ears, crushing his skull. He inhaled deeply, focused, and drove them away to a disused corner of his mind. That could have gone better.

Maybe the dragon was right. Maybe he wasn’t Merlin, not anymore. After all, he had been feeling something off all day, he was just too busy burying his head in the nostalgia to acknowledge it. That could very well be it. His old life, as much as he loved it, seemed to be an ill-fitting skin he couldn’t quite slip into anymore. Maybe this was the price for his return. Nevertheless, he would endure it. He could endure it.

He was Emrys now. He had lived through the numerous invasions from the Anglo-Saxons and Normans that had slowly morphed the Albion he had known into the Great Britain he came to know. He’d seen numerous kingdoms rise and fall. He’d experienced wars beyond count, and had participated in quite a few. He had traveled the world and learned its many cultures and languages. He had been a doctor, soldier, revolutionary, loyalist, criminal, lawman, teacher, student, and much more. He had watched magic fade from the world. And through all that, he had said goodbye to more people than even he could really remember anymore. 

He could do this. He was stronger, smarter, more knowledgeable. His magic was powerful and deadly. Against all odds, he had made another chance for himself. A chance to correct his greatest mistake.

This time, he wouldn’t fail.


	6. The Point of No Return

It didn’t take Merlin long to prepare once he had returned to the citadel a little past midnight.

Since Kilgharrah would be taking him he didn’t need many supplies. All he planned to bring with him was a change of clothes unlike those he normally wore, one of the less-used swords pilfered from the armory, one gold piece, and a long, dark hooded cloak. Getting himself out of Camelot without arousing suspicion wasn’t too complex a plan either. Doing his best to be silent, he rooted around in Gaius’s medicinal stores until he found three vials of tincture made from stinging nettle seeds. Then, retreating into his room, he lay down to rest, though he didn’t sleep. As he lay motionless, letting the hours tick by, he allowed his magical guard to relax.. 

Eventually, the sky began to grow pale with the dawn. Gritting his teeth, Merlin downed the first of the nettle tinctures, stashed the rest under the loose floorboard, and then collapsed back into bed. He had timed it well. Not long after, Gaius began to wake just in time to catch the sound of Merlin hurling into the wash basin. 

“Oh dear,” the old man said, coming forward and patting the warlock’s hunched back. He put a hand to Merlin’s forehead and tutted sympathetically. “Bit of fever. Any aching in the head or joints?”

Merlin nodded wordlessly. That nettle tincture was a killer, but certainly effective, since it was meant to help victims of poisoning purge their systems, and he didn’t even need to fake the feverish heat; that was just natural for him now. The whole plan might have been a little juvenile, but it was the easiest way to get out of both work and the feast without looking suspect or taking too long. Nausea rolled over him again and he went back to his business with the wash basin. 

“I’ll make sure Arthur knows you won’t be working today. It’s also probably for the best that you don’t attend the feast, either.”

Merlin let out a noise he hoped sounded disappointed, although to him it just came across as rather pathetic, like a dying porpoise. Gaius patted him on the back again. “I’m sorry, my boy, but it’s better not to risk it.”

His mentor made sure he was comfortable, preparing a warm broth and doing his best to alleviate the faked symptoms. Merlin relished Gaius’s presence and care while also feeling a knot of guilt growing in his chest for the lie, so he was both disappointed and relieved when Gaius had to leave to see about some of his own duties. He stayed in bed; he could catch up on his rest until sundown. Gaius popped back in once or twice, and even Gwen stopped by a little after noon to see how he was doing. Merlin pretended to be sleeping every time. _After this_ , he told himself continually as the hours crawled by. _After this I can see them._

The light in his room was beginning to go red when Gaius came back in again. Merlin shifted to show him that he was awake. “The feast will be starting soon,” Gaius said softly, leaning over to look at him. After downing all three of the tinctures throughout the day, Merlin guessed he looked rather terrible even now that the effects had worn off. “Would you prefer I stayed here?”

“Not a child, Gaius,” he grumbled into his pillow. Oh, if only Gaius knew. 

The physician huffed a laugh. “Maybe not, but you wouldn’t have to get out of bed for anything.”

Merlin looked up, allowing a true smile to cross his face. “Really, I’m fine. I’ll just sleep some more. Go and enjoy the celebration.”

The smile he received in turn and the light pat on his covered knee filled him with warmth, but also made him a little uncomfortable. He did his best to hold onto his own faint smile, but as soon as Gaius shut the door behind him, Merlin’s grin slid away and a deep, cold calm overtook him. He waited a few minutes after he heard the outer door close, rose from the bed, fluffed it as best he could to imitate his sleeping form, and collected his things. He stripped out of his sweat-soaked night clothes and into the nondescript clothing he had “borrowed” from another servant’s quarters, and he belted the sword at his hip. He had never achieved great swordsmanship, and what skills he did have were undoubtedly rusty, but he had learned that it was better to be as armed as he could manage. Everything now ready, he left the physician’s tower without so much as a backward glance.

As he made his way downward through the castle, projecting _LOOK AWAY_ as strongly as he could in order to pass unnoticed, he focused on that bone-deep calm that was settling in. It was a familiar sensation now; it was the anticipation before battle. Merlin did his best to extend the same tranquility to his magic, which in contrast was spiking beneath his skin like a rising charge before a storm, to the point the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were standing up. He would need to be in control if he was to face Morgana. This strike needed to be quick and decisive; she couldn’t be allowed to escape. 

Heading in the opposite direction of all those making their way to the feast, Merlin wound his way down into the dungeons and one of the siege tunnels that led outward past the guards on the walls. It was even easier than he remembered. Before he knew it, he was out of the barred doorway and making his way into the forest. He took one last glance back toward Camelot’s towers before swinging the cloak around his shoulders and plunging into the gathering darkness beneath the trees. 

The sun had just set when Merlin deemed himself far enough from the walls to release his roar. The old words of summoning sprang to his lips almost with eagerness. By the time he reached the clearing, he could already spot Kilgharrah’s shadow gliding ghostly across the darkening sky. 

The dragon landed with an earth-shaking thud, anger in every taut muscle of his frame. He said nothing to Merlin, hardly even looked at him, merely stood at the ready with wings still half-raised. Merlin’s jaw clenched. He knew it was an abuse of his Dragonlord abilities, even just as a threat without actually issuing a command, but considering the circumstances he was more willing to sacrifice Kilgharrah’s good will than run the risk of being too weak to stop Morgana. He climbed up onto the dragon in equal silence. With a great leap and thrust of his wings, Kilgharrah left the ground, bearing them higher and higher before straightening out and catching the winds westward toward the pale peaks of the White Mountains and the Seas of Meredor beyond. 

If things had been different, Merlin would have been overjoyed to be flying again, entirely free in the rushing air and beneath the endless sky rather than being cooped up in a cramped airplane or only seeing it through his Mind’s Eye. However, tonight he was only focused ahead, angling himself forward almost as much as Kilgharrah was. At this rate, with the supernatural speed with which dragons could fly, they would reach the Isle of the Blessed long before midnight, perhaps even before Morgana arrived. His magic roiled through every synapse, ready to lash out the moment he gave the order. 

It was much like him, his magic, Merlin reflected distantly; old and sharp and become more attuned to being a weapon than Merlin had ever wanted it to be. Still, this was his reality now. If he could no longer be fire— unpredictable, sometimes dangerous, but warming and illuminating— then he would be the sword— keen, precise, controlled, and both the defender and attacker for his king. If it meant seeing Arthur on the throne and Albion ushered into its Golden Age, Merlin would be and do anything it took. 

* * *

“Below us,” Kilgharrah said gruffly. His wings folded inward and he began to descend.

Merlin looked down. Ahead of them he could see the bright moonlight shining off a great expanse of water, the channel separating Albion from the Western Isle, or Ireland as he had most recently known it. Cutting in eastward from the water was a smaller inlet that spilled into a lake, almost perfectly round in shape and resting at the very edge of Camelot’s borders. In the middle of that lake was a dark smudge: The Isle of the Blessed. 

They angled downward sharply, making sure to stay beneath the shadows of the drifting scraps of cloud. Merlin braced himself for the jolt, still jerking forward when Kilgharrah hit the ground. The dragon fell into a decelerating lope to burn off momentum before he drew to a stop.

The night was almost silent, save for the hushed lapping of tiny waves against the lakeshore. Merlin slid off Kilgharrah’s back, eyes already fixed on the dark landmass rising from the water about a kilometer out. His magic burned hot in readiness, coiled like live wires around the bones in his hands, around his spine, pulsing behind his eyes. 

A rustling of wings and scales drew his attention. Kilgharrah was staring at him intensely. Merlin twitched a nod. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I know it was against your will, but this is something I need to do.”

“Merlin.” This time, Kilgharrah didn’t sound angry. In fact, Merlin couldn’t tell what emotion was coloring the dragon’s tone. “If you will not be dissuaded from this, remember one thing: fate chose you for a reason. Whatever you might have persuaded yourself of over the years, forces greater than ourselves and beyond our understanding were at work. Do not think that sheer might and count of years puts you above them. After all, no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny.”

Merlin stared up at the dragon. When he was young, Kilgharrah’s penchant for speaking in riddles was a surefire method of getting under his skin. By now he’d learned that answers would come in their time. Besides, he had little of his own to spare on pondering it. He gave the dragon another nod, this one of acknowledgement, and began to walk anti clockwise around the shore. A few galloping thuds and then a few even louder thumps of disturbed air later and Merlin was alone. 

A chill breeze blew across the lake, ruffling Merlin’s dark hair. Reminded, he pulled his hood down low over his face and wrapped the folds of the cloak around himself to conceal as much as possible. Following the waterline for about ten minutes, he found a small dock. To it was tethered a boat, and in that stood a man; gaunt, gray-skinned, and unnervingly still. As Merlin approached, he broke his eerie stillness, head swiveling toward the shrouded warlock as ifon a pivot. Wordlessly he held out a hand.

“To the Isle,” Merlin said, pulling out the single gold piece from his pocket and dropping it into the boatman’s palm. No sooner had he settled into the tiny craft than it began to slide forward across the choppy surface. 

The cold calm was stronger than ever, battling against his magic which was like a hound straining on a leash. All of his senses were primed and ready. Closing his eyes, Merlin could see memories attached to this particular feeling flashing in the darkness; Saxon and Norman invaders on the shores of Albion, slave traders on the plains of West Africa, criminals in the backstreets of London or Dublin, German dogfighters over the French countryside.

He needed control. If Morgana was to be defeated, it was to be at his hand and not at that of his magic given free rein. Just as he had overcome those quarries of his past, so he would this one.

As the Isle drew nearer, Merlin could feel the magic permeating the air. Whether it was due to his much-increased magical prowess or his deprivation from it, he was hypersensitive to the cloud of power surrounding the cluster of black rock and crumbling towers. As the little boat slipped into a narrow channel leading into the island, Merlin caught a tendril of darker power, living and twisted compared to the flat and unmoving magic that had soaked into the very stones. _Morgana._

The boat stopped and Merlin stepped out. He waited until it had disappeared back the way it had come before turning to the dank tunnel he was meant to take. He couldn’t tell where exactly Morgana was, and in this case he intended to find her the old-fashioned way. Who knew how sensitive she was to the probing of the Third Sight? Wrapping his cloak even tighter around himself, Merlin entered the Isle proper.

It was slow going, concentrating on the wisp of Morgana’s presence and trying to follow it through the crisscrossing alleys and corridors. Before being sacked in the Purge, the Isle had been a place of study and practice for the High Priestesses and their acolytes, so it was a small city more than anything. Any number of places to hide. Merlin glanced upward to the sky. Midnight was still a few hours off, but that time could vanish quickly searching this place. 

He was lucky, though. Skirting a smaller courtyard, he entered another side road and found his trail. It was faint, but there. A disturbance in the small debris and coating of dirt on the ground, as if a piece of long clothing had brushed over them in passing, dragging the detritus behind it. 

He had her.

Conjuring a dim light to his hand, he picked his way forward as silently as possible. When he was nearly at the center of the island, he halted. The light snuffed out.

She was near. The trail and the whisper of Morgana’s presence pointed toward a small, low-slung building at the corner of a wider thoroughfare; maybe one meant for bookkeeping by the lack of windows. Keeping to the shadows, Merlin moved fast and low, magic taut as a bowstring, aiming for the narrow gap between the target building and the larger residence beside it. As he drew up to the wall he caught the sounds of two people conversing through the crumbled masonry. He knew them both.

“I’m sure there must be something about to make you more comfortable.” The lilting, regal voice of Morgana was unmistakable, even if it sounded far more vulnerable than had been usual. For a second, Merlin struggled against his magic; it had almost acted on its own, wrapping great invisible claws around the stone walls and crushing them then and there, burying the sorceress in rubble. It was too clumsy, too unsure, too wrathful. He needed to wait.

“It matters little, sister,” said the other weakly. Morgause. He hadn’t thought about it, but it made sense. If a sacrifice had been required to close the tear, it must have taken one to open it in the first place. She sounded frail, so unlike the warrior priestess that had brought Camelot to its knees. “Midnight will soon be upon us, and such meager comforts will be beyond me. However, I would ask for some water, as a final request.”

A shuddering breath escaped Morgana and Merlin blinked. When was the last time he could remember hearing such genuine grief from her? “Of course. Anything you want.”

Merlin shrank back even further into the shadows as Morgana emerged. His memories did not do her beauty justice even from the back, both darker and fairer than any mental copy could manage. For a moment she paused, causing Merlin to tense, wondering if he had been caught. But Morgana didn’t turn. He watched as her shoulders trembled and her head bowed. Normally so proud and deadly, she seemed wilted and harmless. Faint gasps reached his ears and he realized she was crying. The warlock found himself looking away. It was not an image he could reconcile with the Morgana he knew she was; willing to torture, manipulate, and slaughter for the sake of her goals. Maybe the Morgana he had been friends with once upon a time, but not this woman.

It took a minute for Morgana to regain control, dashing away the tears and muffling her cries. As soon as she was silent, she straightened up and strode away into the darkness, the stubborn pride returned if only to be used as a shield. Within seconds she was gone. 

Merlin rose from his crouch. He had intended to follow her, catch her alone and unawares. Now he reconsidered the conditions. While Morgana was now the stronger of the two sisters and his ultimate target, if he were to remove the sacrifice then there could be no possibility of the veil between worlds opening, even if Morgana were to escape him. 

Merlin’s frowned darkly. He could hear Morgause’s ragged breathing inside. It would be low, especially against someone who had little chance of defending themselves against him. But it was for Arthur, wasn’t it? For Merlin’s second chance. Hadn’t he sworn to do whatever it took? 

Merlin closed his eyes, seeking out every hunter’s instinct he had, and with a steady hand he withdrew the sword from his belt. 

_For the love of Camelot_ , he thought as he stepped around into the dark, open doorway. 

“Sister?” the blonde witch whispered to the black silhouette framed by moonlight. 

_“Bregdan ánweald beaduléoma.”_ A ghostly blue flame caught along the blade and before Morgause could even make a sound, Merlin struck. 

It was over in a second. The flame was snuffed out as the blade met its mark. Merlin’s stomach roiled as he leaned his weight into the sword, driving it in deep. The witch’s body jerked, a wet gasp escaping her, before she fell completely limp. It was painfully easy. The warlock allowed a single shudder to roll along his shoulders and down his back before he pulled the blade free. He stared down at the body. There was just enough light leaking in from outside to reveal the bloated scarring on the right side of Morgause’s face, the broken blood vessels in that dead eye.

_That was me, wasn’t it?_ He had always believed that his final attack had killed her far more quickly, but apparently she had clung to life long enough to help her sister deal a final blow to Camelot. Now, though, Merlin had come back to finish the job he had started. He could have laughed or been nauseous and not known which was the proper reaction.

That wisp of darkness teased against the back of his neck. Morgana would be on her way back soon enough. Merlin turned from the body, hand still clenched around the sword as he exited and turned left down the street, seeking out another hiding place. In the rubble of a sacked residence about a furlong off, Merlin crouched down and waited for Morgana’s return.

It was impossible to miss.

A ragged scream split the air and Merlin’s hand slipped, almost slicing his fingers open as he fumbled the sword. God, he had heard Morgana scream without restraint before, but only with rage or desperation. Never with such raw grief. He clenched his jaw and stared down his reflection in the blade. _Just one more. Just one more and then it’s over._

“WHERE ARE YOU?!” Morgana sounded half-mad, livid shrieks strangled by rough sobs, to the point she hardly sounded human. “SHOW YOURSELF! I will make you wish you had never been born for this! I’ll peel the flesh from your bones! Come out! COWARD!” The taunt was interrupted by another bout of sobs. 

Merlin called upon his magic, slavering like a rabid dog and biting at the insides of his fingertips for release. This was it. All he would have to do was open the gate and let it go while she ranted, completely vulnerable. He peered out from a hole in the half-tumbled wall, down the street at the lone figure draped in black as it stumbled along: savage, raving, and very much alone. Tear tracks streaking her face glinted in the moonlight.

A decision was made before the warlock was even aware of it. 

Morgana’s threats were abruptly cut off as she suddenly went hurtling backward along the street, crashing across the stones in an undignified tangle of limbs. She moaned in pain and went limp. Undoubtedly injured, but alive.

Merlin withdrew his magic with all the strength he had, yanking back the tremendous force that had only just been restrained enough, flinging Morgana away instead of crushing every one of her bones in the first strike. He rose to his feet and stepped out, channeling a fragment of that writhing power into bending the moonlight away from him just enough, hardly more than a glamour effect. Wordlessly, unhurriedly, he walked down the street until he stood above Morgana. She shifted and moaned again. When she rolled over and opened her eyes, it was to the sight of a hooded figure with its face hidden in shadow looming over her, red-stained sword poised above her throat. They stared each other down, neither daring to make a move. 

_“_ Morgana Pendragon _._ ” Summoning up the dragon within him, Merlin twisted his voice into a much deeper and disguising growl that echoed in his chest, its very nature conveying authority and threat. “I’m giving you one warning. Leave Camelot, find whatever peace you can in another land, and I’ll let you leave with your life. This kingdom and its people are under my protection, and as long as I am around no one will harm them. Not even you.” 

Morgana, still crumpled on the ground, peered up at him with eyes widened in fear. Her gaze locked on the sword that he had not yet cleaned of blood, and hatred overtook that fear.

“Who are you?” Her voice shook a little, but she was not easily cowed. She struggled to sit upright, wincing and bent double. “Give me your name, murderer! You will pay for what you’ve done!”

This was foolish, he knew. Every rational part of him was saying that leaving Morgana alive would just be repeating his mistakes from the past. As pitiable as she was, it wouldn’t stop her from causing misery wherever she went. For Camelot’s sake, she needed to die.

But he couldn’t do it. Not tonight.

If he was going to take the risk, the least he could do was divert her attentions.

“My name is Emrys,” he said softly. In spite of that, the name seemed to sing in the still air, ensuring that she couldn’t miss it. The urgency and harshness of his voice rose. “Listen to me, Morgana. For the sake of the good person you once were, I hope you take this chance, because it will be your last. If you ever try to attack Camelot again, I will be waiting for you. Now take your sister and leave this place.”

Morgana’s eyes narrowed to slits. He knew she wanted nothing more than to tear him apart and take revenge for her sister, but she was injured and at a disadvantage. She didn’t know who he was or what he could do. She rose slowly and ungainly to her feet, clutching at the ribs on her right side. Merlin, with equal wariness, backed up enough to allow her up, sword still at the ready and a spell on his lips. With jerky movements, Morgana began to limp past him and toward the building where Morgause’s body lay. It wasn’t until she had reached the doorway that she broke eye contact, turning her back to him.

The air charged up like a flash thunderstorm. _“ÁSTRICE!“_ Morgana howled as she spun around, eyes blazing with golden light and hands outstretched. 

“ _Scildhrêoða me!_ ” Merlin’s hand flew up just in time. The invisible blow collided with the shield hard enough to shove Merlin back a few paces, boots scraping along stone as he fought to keep balance. Morgana, face twisted with fury, opened her mouth to unleash another spell. Too slow.

“ _Forwrecan sîn_!” Merlin roared. A tangle of smoky threads exploded from his hands with a force so violent it hurt him. They shot toward Morgana, writhing like eels. Before she could retaliate, they had coiled and snapped tight around her. Even as the priestess shrieked out in rage, the sound morphing quickly into mounting pain and panicked terror, she was consumed in smoky darkness before it and the witch vanished with an ear-piercing crack. 

Merlin’s arms fell limply at his side and a gust of air escaped his lungs. His hands felt like they’d been inflicted with agonizing ice burn, and he cradled them to his chest. How long had it been since he’d been in a magical duel? He didn’t know. This one was so short it hardly qualified, but his heart was still pounding in his throat. He side-stepped until his shoulder hit a wall and he slumped. His body might feel weak, but everything that made him magic and dragon and defender was crowing victory inside him. It longed for more. 

Merlin stayed where he was until the midnight hour had come and gone. 

It was done. No going back now. 


	7. Encore

Gentle flames crackled in the hearth, and Merlin reveled in the warmth. It was a cold morning, and Arthur would probably appreciate the fire, if he ever woke up. After the feast and how much he had probably drunk, Merlin wouldn’t be surprised if the Prince Regent slept through until the next day. Not that he was going out of his way to get Arthur out of bed. The curtains were still drawn and he was being as quiet as possible.

Everything else already attended to, Merlin allowed his exhausted body to rest for a moment. He stared into the flames, the flickering swirls of light transporting him back several hours, to when he had stood on the shores of the lake, watching as a pyre sent sparks whirling into the paling sky.

Morgana was gone. That had left Merlin with the responsibility of dealing with Morgause’s body. While he’d had little feeling for the woman, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the body to rot. So he’d wrapped her in his cloak, gathered her up, ferried his way back to land, and set about collecting wood. He had not had the time to dig a proper grave.

The stars had begun to fade and the fire had been roaring high when Merlin heard the rush of great wings. It had surprised him, but he made no move even when the ground shook and Kilgharrah drew level with him. For several uncounted minutes, the dragon and dragonlord had stood in silence as the flames turned the body to cinder. 

“So the witch is dead then,” Kilgharrah finally said, not taking his gaze from the pyre.

Merlin had not looked at the dragon, only continued to stare into the twisting flames. “One of them,” he’d said softly. “Morgana isn’t dead.”

He’d felt Kilgharrah shift in surprise. “You spared her?”

Merlin nodded.

“Might I ask why?” The dragon’s voice was neutral, calculated. 

Merlin had just shrugged.

“After all this time, your care for her remains?”

Then Merlin had turned to look up at the dragon, wearing a distant frown. “I suppose. Yes, I pitied her.” He’d paused. “But… if it was only pity, I don’t think that would have stopped me.”

“Then what do you suppose did?”

“I don’t know,” he had admitted. “Several things, I think. She _was_ my friend once. She’s Arthur’s sister. I had just killed _her_ sister. And…your words to me. Last night.”

Kilgharrah had remained silent, and Merlin had felt the need to explain. The dragon was the only person that he _could_ explain it to.

“I’m going to stay here, Kilgharrah. That hasn’t changed. I will see Arthur on the throne and protect him. But…I needed to know that I could… stop.” Merlin had looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. The pain was gone, but the memory of that power surging out of them was not. “Now I know. Next time, I will not spare her.”

“What are you going to do now?” There had been a softer note in Kilgharrah’s voice then, one that Merlin had felt wasn’t entirely deserved. 

He’d barked a short laugh. “I have no idea.”

“I see your ability to plan rationally has not improved with age, Merlin.” It was said so archly that Merlin couldn’t help but smirk.

“Maybe not. I suppose I’ll have to find my feet first, get back into the old routine. Plan. There are a lot of things to consider. Because of my choice, Morgana is loose again. I need to figure out how to defend against her. And when to tell Arthur about the magic.”

“You’re going to?” Kilgharrah had asked. He’d seemed surprised.

“Probably. When the time is right. I mean, what’s the worst he could do? Kill me?” Merlin had hoped the smile was more sarcastic than bitter.

Merlin had then looked up into the sky. The eastern horizon was turning into the grayish-blue of predawn, and the crumbling pyre was sending up spirals of white ash. “I need to return to Camelot,” he’d said. 

“Remember what I told you, Merlin,” Kilgharrah had said, staring him down. “You’re walking a dangerous road. You must be wary at all times, for a wrong decision could spell disaster for us all.” 

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, then.”

He hadn’t bothered going to Gaius’s chambers upon his return. If the old man had missed him at some point during the night, he would just say he had felt uneasy and decided to check that things were all clear. Instead, he had made his way to Arthur’s chambers, where he now found himself in front of the fire, mind turning from the past to the future. 

Merlin placed the fire iron aside and crept his way past the snoring lump of blankets on the bed and to the windows. He drew the curtains aside just a crack and peered out. 

The courtyard was coming alive now, proper morning having set in. Servants scampered back and forth with guards and knights marching in and out of the palace as shifts changed and training began. All was normal. There would be no incoming reports of villages under attack by screaming, faceless shapes. No rising count of frozen bodies. No influx of terrified citizens rushing for safety that they could barely provide. There would be no sacrifice on the Isle of the Blessed. Lancelot would not die. That was all gone.

For the first time since his return, Merlin felt that all was _right_. This was what he was meant for. No matter what Kilgharrah said, he _would_ make things right. 

Merlin caught a flicker of a black cloak as someone exited the main doors of the citadel. Agravaine. Another problem he would have to solve. However, Merlin could have almost grinned. Much like Uther, the warlock was having a hard time remembering how it felt to consider this man a threat. Perhaps for the first time, he felt how liberating immortality could be. Not Morgana, not Agravaine, not the most fearsome army in the world could kill him. He was Emrys, and nothing could keep him from his destiny now. 

There was a sleepy groan behind him. Merlin looked over his shoulder, a thread of longing curling through him as he looked at his friend. He wondered if, with time, he would be able to see Arthur again as his friend, not just a casualty to be prevented or a much-desired goal that Merlin had to achieve. He’d spent so long regretting and rethinking his actions that maybe this was just going to have to be the way things were. But even if that were the case, he had given his word that he would be whatever Arthur needed to become all that the prince was meant to be. Merlin took in one more deep breath, steeling himself for the long task ahead. Rolling his shoulders, Merlin banished any trace of his thoughts from his face and put on a cheery grin.

The curtains shot apart, flooding the room with bright morning light.

“Rise and shine, sire!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that is the first and pretty short by comparison installment of this series. Look forward to much more, my dear readers. There will be a story for almost every episode of season 4, and there's a lot I have planned for them. So keep an eye out for Part Two: The Wicked Night!


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